A Raven's Tale
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: When the Titans investigate a break in at Jump City Museum of History, they get more than they bargained for. A TT & toberevealedlater Fusion. Coauthored with Emaniahilel.
1. A Gypsy Draped in Ermine

_**A Raven's Tale**_

_Prologue: A Gypsy Draped in Ermine_

by Kysra and Emaniahilel

He had an eye for beauty, for the exotic and carnal; therefore, she caught and held his attention from the moment she first appeared from behind flowing drapery and shadow. Her face was fine-boned and exquisite with wide eyes that reflected a strange combination of wary worldliness and optimistic innocence, pert nose, and small bow-like mouth, all framed by lively curls of purest ebony. Garbed in the dress of her people, she was a vision in bright yellow and green and crimson, her wrists, ankles, hips, and ears trimmed with strands of tinkling bells and chattering coins that provided a staccato rhythm to her rolling gait.

As she took a regal pose before her lord's table, he studied her upraised profile; the long line of her lovely throat; the darling contour of one thin wrist; the delicious arc between forefinger and thumb; the flirtatious daintiness of a delicate exposed ankle. His mouth fairly watered with want of her, and he found himself famished despite the half-consumed feast laid out before him.

A boy, broad-shouldered and equally as beautiful as the girl, began to beat upon a large drum, the sound muted and tempered as an older man, bent and wizened with age, took up the high pitched tones of a seasoned flute. They were accompanied by a plump, muddy-haired woman whose lute was strung and strummed with sure, patient fingers; and nearby a green little girl with long wheat-colored hair and a pristine white apron, held a small metal triangle in her grubby hands.

The painted girl (for indeed, the kohl-lined eyes and rouged lips marked her as an Egyptian), the one who had enraptured His Majesty's sensibilities, tapped a leather-shod foot in time even as her hips began to rock and those lovely, lovely wrists twisted with sharp, brief movements. As the myriad bells and coins adorning her body provided an accented counterpoint to the musicians' rhythm, the lustful Prince John smiled with realization. The girl was her own instrument – certainly an adventurous and unusual prospect for one of such fine tastes as he.

And then his mind went blank, his jaw slack, as this striking creature leaped into a rousing dance. _Richard may have his war and blood_, he thought stroking his beard. _I shall have my dancing gypsy girl._

Her skirts were thin and seemingly alive, swirling around her calves in time with the rhythmic tinkle of the tiny bells strung around her trim ankles; and her body was like that of a snake being charmed by the melody of whimsical flute and booming drums, flowing and rocking and spinning and churning until her viewers were breathless.

Gorgeous, graceful, skilled and attractive, she twirled and skipped and stepped, smiling and mindless with music-driven motion; and he was captivated, rudely ignoring the Lady Fitzwalter's attempts at conversation and completely missing Lord Gisborne's cheeky grin.

When all was done, and she met the last drum beat with a daring flirt of her skirt hem, he applauded loudest of all - quite more amorously than was proper, and he fancied it did not escape her notice when her honey eyes boldly met his even as she bounced a rough curtsy.

Coins of silver clinked into the old flute player's hat and swerved across the floor, chased by the little triangle girl with the grubby hands. She thanked the company with pretty words and prettier voice while the portly woman packed her lute and bundled the monies.

He watched as Gisborne rose to order them away (though he made certain to offer vittles from the kitchens first), and as she began to walk away into the dark corridor adjoining the central hall, he halted her with a word.

"Give me your name, gypsy."

Luminous eyes were turned on him then, and he imagined that she must be some unholy creature of the veil for no angel every consumed man in fire like this siren has consumed him. For several moments, she hesitated, glancing back once to her companions before nodding once to some silent conspirator and meeting his gaze directly, "I am called Arella, Your Majesty."

To be continued . . .

**Historical Notes -**

1. This story will (mostly) take place c. 1190s in England. That should give some clue as to what we're up to

2. The painted girl/Egyptian - this is a reference to the Medieval idea that the nomadic group collectively called Romani were originally from Egypt (which just isn't so). The theory went that they were cast out of Egypt for harboring the baby Jesus. Hence the misnomer Gypsy (derived from Egyptian).

3. The very fact that I'm putting a gypsy character into 12th century England is a glaring historical anomaly. The Romnichal did not appear in England till around the 14th-15th century.

4. Prince John/fine tastes - Yes, it's THAT Prince John. Another clue as to what we're up to but it's probably not what you think at the moment XD Anyway, Prince John was notoriously interested in exotic fare – food, clothes, furs (such as polar bear), and other rare/expensive trinkets. He was also a well-known lecher who managed to father several illegitimate children.

5. Yes, I do mean THAT Richard and the war mentioned is the Crusades. (Is it becoming clear yet?)


	2. Thou Net Hath Snagged a Raven

_**A Raven's Tale**_

_Chapter 1: Thou Net Hath Snagged A Raven_

By Emaniahilel and Kysra

The Jump City Museum of History was a marvel of neo-gothic architecture, all looming arches and flying buttresses. Even crammed as it was unceremoniously between a nondescript concrete building on its left and dwarfed by the tall plate glass Bank of Perez skyscraper on its right, the eye tended to stray to the ornamental swirls of lace-like concrete just above the massive doors and the carved towers piercing the sky like sentries on either side.

It looked very much like a medieval cathedral, even though it was barely ten years old. This was, perhaps, why the State of California had chosen to make the Jump City Museum of History the longest durational stop on the Tower of London collection tour when it came to California before returning to its permanent home in the British Museum.

As far as the Titans were concerned, however, there was no difference between the Tower of London Collection Tour stopping at their museum and the King Tut exhibit that toured the previous summer. If there was something worth stealing being put on display and advertised as such in their city, the Titans were on alert for thieves, it didn't matter if it was a tour of Toilet Bowls from the World's First Toilet Bowl Museum in Padunke, Iowa.

Of course, the prestigious Jump City Museum of History did not put Toilet Bowls on display (unless they were the ancient remnants of the first guarderobes from a Roman Bathhouse or something of the like), they presented only very valuable historical artifacts, and just because the Tower of London tour boasted no jewels or gold did not mean there was nothing worth stealing. The Titans knew this. They also knew that even though there had been no incidents reported in connection to the Tour anywhere else it had traveled, Jump was its last stop before leaving the country and that usually meant trouble.

Which was why, of course, no sooner had the thieves in question begun filling their bags with priceless artifacts from England's bawdy history and the Titans were there, making sure everything was put back in its place and the perpetrators were taken to justice.

"I don't like it."

Robin glanced at his side and fixed Raven with one of his patented cheeky grins. "I admit, it's a bit dark for my personal tastes, but I would've rather thought this decor was more to your liking."

She glared at him. "I am not speaking about the exhibit."

"So you _do_ like the exhibit?"

"Actually, I had thought of coming to see this exhibit tomorrow," she admitted thoughtfully, "But that is not the issue here," she hastened to assure him when the cheeky grin transformed into knowing grin before her very eyes.

He was all business again in less than a minute. "What is it?" he asked.

"It was too easy."

The ghost of the cheeky grin flashed again under his serious expression, "Well, we _are_ the Titans..."

Something like a smile ghosted across her expression in return, but she shook her head and looked around. "It feels like magic in here," she told him. "And the hoods were obviously just looking for movable goods they could sell. There was not a magic user among them," she looked perplexed. "It doesn't fit."

"Cyborg," Robin turned to the larger man just as he finished talking to the Museum curator about his alarm system.

"Wassup?" Cyborg asked, approaching them both.

"Scan the area for anything the hoods might've left behind, would you?" Robin asked. "Check for anything like surveillance, anything like that."

"Got it," Cyborg confirmed and set out to do as asked.

"Beast Boy," Robin motioned to the youngest Titan where he was looking in awe at some of the displays.

"Yo, Boss?" Beast Boy joked as he approached.

"Sniff around for anything strange," Robin informed him.

"Everything around here's strange..." Beast Boy mumbled but he shifted into a Blood Hound and set about to sniff the area anyway.

Robin turned to Raven only to find she already had her eyes closed, and was doing that thing she did when she tapped into the energies, however it was she did it.

-ART-

Hours later, the Titans were still attempting to sift through the chaos and debris and secure the area. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the criminals' methodology; and without clues pointing to their pattern of operation, Robin was at a loss in trying to determine their aim.

"Raven, report," Robin spoke into his communicator as he watched Cyborg brief the museum curator on the deficiencies of his security system...again.

There was a brief moment of static and then Raven's voice broke through the line, "I'm in the West Wing."

She sounded hesitant. "What's in the West Wing?" he asked. "Is it not secure?"

"It's secure," she answered. "It actually looks to be predominantly untouched, I think they didn't get a chance to get this far or there was nothing here that interested them, maybe."

"I hear a 'but' coming," Robin prompted.

"_But_," Raven emphasized enough for Robin to smile briefly at the verbal eye-rolling he could just hear in her voice, "I _feel_ something," she finished.

Robin knew what she meant when she said that. Still, he needed a bit more information. "What kind of _something_ do you feel?"

"I don't exactly know," Raven answered. "It's almost like residual magic," she paused for a moment. "Did the others confirm there were no magic users among the thieves?" she asked.

Robin looked at where Beast Boy and Starfire were helping the museum staff put back the few items the thieves had managed to get at, while the clean up crew swept up broken glass and scorched metal. "It's been confirmed," he assured her. "Not a magic user in the bunch."

"Standby," she announced. "I'm going to investigate."

"Be careful," Robin said, without thinking.

"I always am," Raven replied.

It took Robin half a second to decide to find the West Wing. It wasn't that he didn't think Raven could take care of herself, and it wasn't as if he would be much use if there was a magic user, but he couldn't help the thought that she shouldn't be investigating something obviously not related to the immediate theft by herself.

"Cyborg," Robin said, walking by him on his way to the corridor that led to the west. "Wrap things up here if you think we've got everything we need."

"On it," Cyborg assured. "Where are you going?"

Robin didn't so much as pause in his step. "Raven's investigating something in the west wing, I'm going to help her."

Nobody questioned him.

"Holler if you need us," Cyborg said, checking to make sure they had everything they needed to run through the crime scene in their lab later.

Robin found the precise room in the west wing where Raven was by a methodical process, which, however practical it might have been, had him reaching the room exactly two seconds too late to stop her from touching the case at the end of the room.

He knew three things immediately: one, the case Raven was approaching was the only one that was open in the room, and two, its contents was apparently untouched. Three, whatever it was in the case should remain untouched.

How he knew these things, and why he felt so strongly about wanting to stop her from touching the case, he'd never know. He wasn't a magic user himself and wouldn't be able to sense _anything_ except recognize the tingle of magic from the familiarity bred by nearness with Raven and some of the others they had faced. Perhaps it was the same instinctual fighter's reflex that knew danger that recognized that Raven approaching that glass case as if she were in a trance, couldn't be a good thing.

He'd seen Sleeping Beauty. He knew touching something that drew you in the way that case was obviously drawing in Raven was bad.

He got the tingling goose-pimpling sensation that rose the hairs on the back of his neck as he watched her walk to the case and he called out to her.

She stopped and turned around to glance at him, her hand, unfortunately, still stretched out mid-reach for the case. "What are you doing he--?"

She never finished the query, however since her hand, due to gravity or the same unconscious volition that had drawn her thus far, lowered and touched the contents of the box.

The sudden flash blinded him and he covered his face with his arm, calling out to her again even as he did.

He heard her call out to him, as if from very far away, but when the flash receded, there was nothing left in the room except the open case with a very old piece of rope.

"Hangman's Rope," the plaque on the column read. "Used to hang one of the first gypsies of written record in Great Britain."

To be continued . . .


	3. Sing a Tale of Robin the Hood

_**A Raven's Tale**_

_**Chapter II: Sing a Tale of Robin the Hood and His Merry Band of Men**_

by Emaniahilel and Kysra

_It was the smell that woke her._

Smoke, dusty but laced with the scent of freshly burnt cedar tingled at her nostrils. There was an undercurrent of aroma . . . the musky odor of lathered horses and a note of turned soil sprayed with sweat.

The combination reminded her of Azarath – clean, natural, and uncomplicated by industrial toxins.

_It was the bindings that brought her to full awareness._

Rope, coarsely woven and thick, had been twined six times about her shoulders down to her hips, effectively anchoring her to - her fingers tested the structure behind and against her back - the trunk of a broad tree. Tall grass surrounded her and knobby roots were digging into her backside, even through the choking, hot layered material of her skirts.

_Skirt__**s?**_

Opening her eyes, she blinked repeatedly to clear the blur of residual magic. A midday sun, high and blazing, illuminated an open field spread before her and edged by a copse of trees that cast long shadows. The applause of a million disturbed leaves seemed to speak ancient hymns in the breeze; and she wondered at the beautiful quiet. There was no insect buzz or birdsong, just the wind through the branches, foliage, and whip-like blades of grass. She remembered such a scene from her childhood in Azarath.

Barring the barely masked sound of shouting and clashing metal.

_Where . . . am I?_

"Where . . . am I?" Her voice seemed too clear, focused, _accented_ even as her mind began the arduous task of taking stock in her current status. There was no pain – not even an echo, so it stood to reason that no harm had come to her body between the museum and here, _wherever here is. _However, it was obvious from the trailing **yards**of emerald velvet shot through with gold thread that someone had stripped her of her leotard and clothed her in what could only be described as a gown, a well-tailored, decadent one at that.

Stranger still, she seemed to be without underwear . . .

Testing the rough bark at her back again, she realized that her hands and face were the only portions of skin remotely exposed despite the heat and challenging the cool breeze. Red-gold hair swept by the air current rose up to tickle her nose and just as she was about to wriggle the appendage in the hopes of alleviating the need to sneeze, her eyes widened as the realization struck that the hair floating before her eyes was somehow hers.

_There was that time Beast Boy filled our shampoo bottles with hair dye . . ., _but that wouldn't account for the sheer **length** of the strands currently torturing her defenseless nose. It was at that point, Raven felt the necessity to amend her prior question. "_Who_ am I?"

Panic was a strange chilling thrill crawling from the base of her spine to the roots of her . . . longer, _strawberry blonde_ hair. She had never felt something so unpleasant before, and reason forced her to further inwardly submit to dread when it followed that she wasn't supposed to feel fear or any derivation thereof.

_Timid? Happy? Courage? Answer me!_

But it seemed there was no one home; and Rage seemed a distant memory, her mind a bare landscape of knowledge, recollection, and body functions. The fragments of her personality were . . . _gone_.

"_What_ is going on?" Again, the voice that issued from her mouth was high pitched and varied – the shock and outrage evident in the undulating tone and increasing volume.

It was not Raven's voice. And the noted accent was distinctly . . ._British_, or at least close enough to be labeled such . . . She thought, perhaps, there was a hint of Irish in the cadence of her speech.

She looked down at herself again, at the nearby trees, the long grass, the seemingly _untouched_ environs, and once again felt the need to amend her first impressions. _English. Whoever . . whenever I am, this person is English._

And Robin was nowhere to be seen so either he escaped the pull of the spell or he was zapped somewhere else. She sincerely hoped it was the former rather than the latter. If she was about to implode into a raging demon without the security of her emotional avatars, she did not wish him to witness it. Not to mention, her chances of returning to the Titans were greater if he was working from her point of origin while she worked from . . . . _here_.

"Very well," she muttered to herself, trying and failing to avoid being distracted by her new, expressive voice. "I need to think this situation through calmly and rationally." Nodding to herself and taking a long, deep (if somewhat painful due to the weight and pull of the rope across her chest), steadying breath before mumbling her meditation chant and exerting the force of her spirit through the ropes.

Nothing happened.

Raven stared dumbly at the wiry brown fibers of the bindings, barely registering the distant whinny and neigh of horses. She tried again.

Nothing. Happened.

And again.

_Nothing_.

Biting back a frustrated howl, she paused. _Frustration_ should have been filtered. She should not be able to feel or react in any way, shape, or form to panic, frustration, . . . _anything_. This was extremely _disconcerting_.

This time, Raven didn't bother holding back a short, muted scream.

"Softly, love. You must wait to play the banshee when my ears are at a distance to better appreciate the effort."

Her head snapped up with such force that she bashed the back of her skull against the tree. Wincing, she wiggled against the ropes, wishing a hand was free to rub the abused portion of scalp.

Squinting, she studied the owner of the new voice before her jaw dropped and eyes widened quite clearly against her will. "_Robin_?"

No. There was no . . . It just wasn't logical.

_However, it isn't particularly logical that I should have long red hair either. _

No . . . no. This man wasn't the Robin she knew. He was much too carefree and there was a palpable obnoxious sort of conceit in his stance. That . . . and his eyes were a little too close together, not quite the same shade of blue.

Her thoughts skimmed over the shoulder length hair and beard. After all, she had similar unexplainable hair growth.

_At least __**his**__ is the right color_.

He chuckled heartily before sheathing his sword and stepping heavily in broad, sturdy leather boots to squat at her side. "Dearest, you do realize I cannot release you until you address me properly."

_Incensed_ would not have properly described what Raven felt at that moment. "Robin, if you do not untie me, I _will_ make you regret it."

"No sweeter promise ever issued from such a maid! Alas, my love, can you not give your husband this humble wish? Will you refuse to grant this man his boon?"

_Husband?! What in Trigon's damned name -- _Grinding her teeth noisily, Raven jerked violently against the rope, feeling something like rage boiling just beneath her skin. "You. Are a dead man."

The man, Robin, Rennaissance Festival reject, _whatever_ threw his head back and laughed; and despite herself, Raven found that she rather liked his voice and the smooth as silk accent.

Unfortunately, this other, older, broader, and more smiley Robin was not the only person to find her (very serious) jab funny.

"I could not agree with such an assessment more." The interruption was punctuated by the shirk of metal against wood and leather as a sword was drawn. "Robin" (for lack of anything better to call him) merely gave a careless grin and winked at her before rising to his full height and turning jauntily on his heel.

Utterly convinced that she was in one of Mad Mod's ridiculously British themed funhouses, Raven let her eyes drift to the newcomer and promptly did a disbelieving double take before gaping without even an ounce of her usual dignity.

There, standing before them with sword drawn and a small group of soldiers in armor was a man she had never seen without a mask but would have staked her life on his identity. _Red X?_ It was uncanny, the way he stood, the placement of his hands, the red 'X' crest emblazoned on his banner and the tunics of his soldiers.

Raven narrowed her eyes. His smirk was how she had always pictured it, a selfish little slash of a mouth made for taunting and blowing hot air. She jerked a little harder against the coarse ropes. "Robin?"

"In a moment, love."

She inwardly growled and wondered if it were possible to kill him from sheer will. She well understood that it appeared she wasn't in Jump anymore, that this wasn't her Robin (but apparently he answered to the moniker), that she had probably been transported to the very distant past and that she had somehow landed herself in the midst of some sort of feudal pissing contest; but if she had to spend another moment tied to a tree when there were several men with cutting tools right _there_ she was going to scream . . . and maybe actually commit bloody murder.

"No. You _will_ cut me loose _this_ moment." She was fairly hissing. It felt _good_. "And do **not** call me 'love'."

The men – all of them – looked at her, and she had the vague idea that, somehow, she was not behaving in an acceptable manner for a supposed damsel-in-distress, not that she particularly cared.

"The lady is a saucy wench, is she not?" Red X's eyes remained alighted and leering on her, blatantly amused and clearly condescending.

Robin exhaled with exaggerated weariness. "Quite. Now, may we duel, sir?" It was said with such civility, Raven briefly thought that she might be mistaken in her assumption that these two were on opposite sides of a growing skirmish.

When X screamed like a maniac and charged with equal fervor, however, she felt vindicated that at least some relationships had not been warped beyond recognition . . . wherever this was.

There was a sense of unreality as she watched through hooded eyes, a rather pensive purse to her mouth. The incessant clang of metal against metal, the volleyed jibes between the two men – they distracted and irritated her. Honestly, she was a superhero. She could get out o f this on her own, powers or no. And when she did she would get substantial answers as to why her hair had suddenly decided to grow to more than twice its original length and bleached itself red-gold; why Robin wasn't quite Robin and wearing leather breeches which fit more snuggly than any pair of tights she had ever seen; why the air was so crisp and clean; and why – for the love of Azar – were they fighting with swords and daggers under a guard of fully armored knights.

Gingerly, eyes still focused on the fight, Raven began to shift and twist until she could pull her arm slightly upward beneath the ropes, and she would have gone farther, wiggled harder, had the ropes not loosened themselves and a brown hand not presented itself into her line of vision.

"Come along, lass. Robin almost has the bastard in his grip, he does." The man was big and covered in – was that _bear fur_? Her gaze shifted along his collar bone to the wide neck and strong chin to find chocolate brown eyes that were unerringly familiar.

"_CYBORG?"_ Now she **knew** she was either dead or dreaming. At the moment, she couldn't begin to decide which option was the more appealing.

Her honorary big brother gave a strange look, half piercing – half measuring, "I know no one of that name, my lady. I am John Little or Little John, as well you should know. Mayhap I should call on Tuck to examine –"

"That won't be necessary." Raven blinked rapidly and began to note the differences between this man and her friend. For one, he had a full head of hair and for another he was too tall, his nose too narrow and the lips too accustomed to frowning. She allowed him to help her to standing. "I'm perfectly f –"

"DAMN YOU!" The cry was guttural and all shades of angry, and she and Cy – Little Joh – Her eyes widened despite the temporary distraction. _Little John? But . . . it couldn't . . . That's just a folk tale, a myth, a legend, not history!_

They watched as Robin approached the fallen Red X while the soldiers looked two steps away from mauling him. Fortunately for him, the sword he was currently pointing to X's throat seemed to give the soldiers pause.

"Take her into the forest, Little John. I do not trust these dogs to quit sniffing at her skirts this day." Raven threw what she imagined to be a heated glare at Robin's back before Little John nudged her in the direction of said forest; and as they jogged gracelessly through the thick, taller-than-she-had-originally –thought grasses, she spared a moment to look back towards the temporary battle ground and was startled by the intent look of noble vengeance in Robin's eyes.

Feeling as if she were missing more than her friends and her entire _world_, Raven stumbled upon the hem of her dress and clasped Little John's hand all the harder for it. Soon enough, they were a short distance into the wood and Robin, X and his knights were no longer visible. More unnerving, however, was the realization that she couldn't _feel_ them. "Do you think he'll be all right? Leaving him alone with them like that?"

Cy – Little John tisked and stroked his clean-shaven chin. "Now, see here, milady. None of us would leave your Robin wanting for an extra hand or bow."

Breathing out slowly, Raven closed her eyes and decided against asking anymore questions for the time being. She was only making herself more confused.

They were silent and still, listening and waiting for long moments beneath the copse of trees. There was very little cover available in the area they had found themselves in, and Raven wondered at why the man at her side was not more concerned. If X had sent someone to intercept them, they would be ripe for the picking.

"Hello again love." The voice, soft as a whisper and sounding directly into her ear caused Raven – unaccustomed to surprise – scream and jump into Little John's meaty arms. Heart thudding wildly and chest heaving, she shot a decidedly fierce look at the grinning 'Robin' who was standing in her previous spot, leaning against a nearby tree.

"I told you not to call me that." He approached her with a lazy swagger that set her teeth on edge. Being able to feel the sheer gamut of emotions, Raven mused, wasn't all it was cracked up to be. She didn't know whether she wanted to inspect him for possible wounds, interrogate him, or kick him in the shin.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." He took up her hand, seemingly unperturbed by the agitated fire in her eyes, and breathed a kiss across her knuckles. "Do you not think so as well, John?"

Little John grunted a noncommittal response before informing them that he thought it best to lay tracks to mislead 'Gloucester's' men should they venture to follow. Robin agreed with a nod before taking her hand – quite against her very vocal protests – and explaining that she was coming with him.

"Where?"

He regarded her in much the same way Little John had previously; however, coming from Robin – no matter how different from the Robin she knew – was distinctly troublesome. "I do believe the man who bludgeoned you may have incurred some damage, truly."

_Someone had knocked her out_? That could explain a few things . . . She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "May I ask . . . Where are we?"

That scrutinizing look became just a smidge more concentrated, but it was only visible for a moment before he turned his attention to leading her through the foliage. "Nottinghamshire, my lady." Just as she had expected . . . England. He continued, "Are there other reminders you require?"

It was on her tongue to ask, _Who are you?_; however, he already had reason to believe she remembered him as she had been calling him by a name he answered to. "Yes . . . What year is it?"

He glanced back at her, and she was morbidly curious when she recognized the amusement glowing in his eyes. "Perhaps I shall have Tuck make certain sure your brains were not addled in some way from the sting of the club."

She would have said something immediately to counter his obvious assumption that she was amnesiac; however, she was struck silent when they came to a small ridge, and Robin automatically spanned the small drop with solid legs, pulled her close, and smoothly lifted her to the other side. It occurred to her then that this man knew whoever she was currently . . . inhabiting, and, clearly, the two had a history filled with these sorts of experiences and situations. His arm remained around her waist longer than necessary, but she was hard-pressed to reprimand him for it. It seemed as if he expected her acceptance of his closeness.

Maybe . . . maybe he had been serious when he had called himself her husband . . .

Shaking her head and feeling somewhat mortified by the amount of leaves and grass fragments that fell from the long strawberry-blonde locks within her field of vision, Raven ran a hand through the strands falling over her back and forced her thoughts back on track. "I'm fine. Humor me."

Not once pausing in his step, he tugged her hand to bring her from behind to his side, that strange look back in full force as he gave her a sidelong glance. "'I'm'?"

Inwardly, she grimaced. Outwardly, she seethed. "I. Am."

His grin, when he leveled it at her, was devastating. "Ah. Well then, my love, tis the year of our Lord eleven hundred and ninety-three."

Hurriedly, Raven made certain calculations in her head, trying not to become tangled in shock. "And you are . . . "

The strange searching look dropped into a distinct frown of upset, but he merely shrugged and reached to smooth a rather nasty and large tangle in her hair. "Robert of Loxley, Earl of Huntingdon, and lauded by our dear patrons as Robin the Hood."

_Sweet Azar . . . _

"Robin . . . Hood." Raven tested the name and somehow found it credible.

Robin . . . Hood returned his attention to her eyes, his face rapidly falling into an expression of concern. "Indeed . . . . You are certain you are well?"

_If he is Robin Hood then . . . I must be . . . __But Robin and . . . they never – "_And I suppose that I am . . . " Raven swallowed against the dryness of her mouth. "Marion?"

This time he came to a full stop to peer into her face intently. "Of course. Who did you think yourself to be? Perhaps that swine Gisborne slipped you a drop of the spirits to make you so odd . . . "

The air seemed heavy in her lungs, her vision blurring. How the hell was she supposed to get out of this one? "No . . . no." It was amazing. She actually _felt_herself pale. "I'm fii –"

Robin watched with no small amount of exasperation as the strongest woman he knew fell into a dead faint right before his eyes.

To be continued . . . . by Em XD

Historical Note: Robin calls himself Raven/Marion's husband. It was not unusual for a betrothed couple in the Middle Ages to think of themselves as already married. Unfortunately for Robin, his unlanded state is a wee bit of a pitfall. Without a land and title, he has become more of a hindrance to Marion, therefore, they are no longer technically engaged. Far be it from someone as tenacious as Robin to let a little thing like poverty and outlawhood stop him from acting on their previous relationship though

Also, about X/Gisborne's livery. This wasn't exactly popular in the 12th century since most knights were poor and livery tended to be expensive. For the sake of clarity, however, I'm overlooking that little tidbit.


	4. A Rose by Any Other Name

**A Raven's Tale**

**Chapter III: A Rose by Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet**

**By Emaniahilel and Kysra**

Raven had never fainted in her life, never been aware that some sort of blackness would encroach upon her vision like a living darkness destroying all the light in her life by increments, or that her head would feel dizzy and it would be hard to focus and she certainly hadn't imagined that the strength not only in her legs, but the control of her entire body would cease, cut off, as if someone had pulled a switch.

What was more, she didn't like it. Not one bit.

The second time she awoke from an unconscious state, Raven was perfectly aware of what had transpired prior to her ungraceful collapse at the introduction (as it were) of her seeming savior.

She was seamlessly aware and cognizant of what had transpired, she even remembered her questions and the man's answers – for some strange reason, she could even remember most acutely the lilt of his speech and the twist of his lips.

She remembered, she just didn't think it was real.

On the contrary, she was quite certain she had been dreaming after having watched entirely too much of the BBC channel and still in that sluggish state of half-asleep, half-awake, she made a stern decision to keep away from her books on western medieval mythology for a good month –

Her eyes still closed, she inhaled and stretched and when she could have sworn it felt like she was sleeping on a very lumpy mattress and she could smell the woodsmoke in the air, she amended her previous thought: 'A month and a half…at least,' she decided.

"Doth she rise?"

Raven started bolt upright at the strange, yet eerily familiar voice and would have been crouching in a ready position to defend herself from the intruders into her bedroom were it not for the long skirts which hindered her and made her lose her balance.

'What the--?' she started to think as her legs got tangled in the yards of linen and homespun and, and thought to hold out her arms to steady herself only secondarily.

She fell back against a broad chest and her hands were grasped and steadied by a strong, but gentle hold. "Easy, love," that smooth voice whispered intimately in her ear, his hands rough and calloused.

She reacted without thinking, refusing to allow herself the possibility that she hadn't been dreaming just in that moment. After all, had she simply woken up at some point in medieval England, she wouldn't have doubted it overmuch – travel through time and space was not unheard of (especially to the Titans) but it was beyond all comprehension that she had somehow made it into a fairytale.

"Stop, Marion, stop!" the voice said as he fought to keep a hold of her once she planted her foot firmly and sharply into his instep, elbowing him in the ribs and fighting to get away from him.

His reflexes were almost as good as the real Robin and he caught her quicker than she could move her legs under all the yards of material, but that didn't mean she was going to give up fighting him. In her struggling, she failed to realize that the room currently holding them looked nothing like her room in the Tower and more like a thatch and wood hut with a heap of burlap covered straw she deduced must be this century's version of a bed.

"Let go of me!" she demanded.

But he didn't, and so in jerking away from him and trying to land a blow where she knew it would hurt, she hit a wooden post and together, they fell onto the dirt floor in a heap of arms and legs…and skirts. _Seriously, as soon as she found a knife, a razor, or scissors . . . _

The sudden fall unexpectedly winded her, and she lay on the floor, an arm strewn over something warm, part of her shoulder inclined to cover the distance, in still silence.

He was the first one to recover, and laughed. Loud and free. The sound caught her by surprise and she shifted to look at him. "Do not look at me so," he said, laughter still in his voice and twinkling in his blue eyes, "I did my level best to warn—"

Raven glared, her newly released anger taking her past accepting the fact that this was not a dream. "What are you doing grabbing me like that, anyway?" Raven interrupted.

"A courtly bow would hardly have kept your sweetness from falling, now would it?" he countered, still oh-so-obviously amused. Even his eyes were laughing which - truly - only added insult to very palpable injury.

Raven struggled to find her footing, taking her hands out of his reach when he would have reached for her. "Yes, and your way was obviously much better," she snapped, pushing yards of skirt aside so that her feet would touch ground and not more fabric.

Suddenly, Cyborg (or, the Cyborg look-a-like) was in her line of view, extending a hand. "My lady," he said, his accent thick and very British - almost Cockney but tinged with a subtle flatness about the edges.

Raven knew this wasn't the Cybrog she knew, but she couldn't help but trust him – so she put her small hand in his and allowed him to help her up. "Thank you," she said, unsure of how she should treat him.

He smiled at her, releasing her when he was certain she was stable on her feet. "Is Robin muckin' about again?" he asked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Want me to thump him for you?"

Behind her, Robin laughed. "Have you forgotten the last time we sparred so soon, John?" he asked.

She looked at him, frowning at the languid, graceful manner with which he rose from the ground and thought uncharitably that if she didn't have yards of material to contend with, she could have stood gracefully too.

"'Twas not I that ended in the river," John was saying, much to Robin's amusement.

Raven turned to inspect him, then found herself inspecting her surroundings instead. She swept the area with a glance first, her eyes trailing from mucked over walls to a shoddy thatched roof, approaching the primitive mat she had woken from, her fingers grazing over the wood of a nearby -- a _loom?_ There was a raw wooden stand near one wall and a stool with what appeared to be some sort of cured animal skin stretched between it, which she assumed was meant to be used as a seat.

_Did all of this come from my imagination? _

She had a passing knowledge of medieval civilization from information she had picked up while researching some theory or other, but the medieval household and medieval society had never been of any particular interest.

And then she remembered who she was supposed to be. She remembered her conversation before she fainted, she remembered this man in the room with her that looked so much like an older Robin from her life was supposed to be Robin the Hood, the bane of Prince John and friend to the people.

_How could I possibly be in a fairy tale?_

"'Tis not the mortar and stone my lady is accustomed to," Robin's voice spoke, once again so close behind her she could practically feel him. She turned quickly to look at him, and she couldn't keep the suspicion from her eyes. "But it fares us well," he finished, as if he hadn't been aware of the effect he had on her.

Raven took a step away from him. "Do you always invade everyone's space, or am I just special?" she asked, her tone heavy with sarcasm.

Robin's eyes twinkled with mischief and his lips quirked in a wicked grin. "You are special in every way, my lady," he answered, offering her another courtly bow and going so far as to take her hand and press a hot kiss to her knuckles before she had a chance to react. When her wits returned, she snapped her hand away, ignoring the almost _hurt? _look on his face.

"Stop it," Raven said, serious. "Stop with the 'my lady's and stop with the bowing, and the flirting, just…stop."

Robin frowned and he appeared about to approach her again until she raised her hands between them in warning. "You have been quite odd since we rescued you from Gisborne, Marion," he said, concern in his tone. "Perhaps we should send for Tuck?"

'Great,_ Tuck?'_ Raven wondered, her eyes going heavenward, wondering whether he'd look like Beast Boy or Speedy. "No," she said succinctly. She might be dreaming or hallucinating, or she might actually be in medieval England with Robin Hood and his Merry Men, but in any case, it wouldn't do to have anyone proclaim her ill or worse, a witch. She knew enough history to know that much was true. Until she could figure out what was going on, she had to keep her eccentricities and questions to herself.

"I'm fine," she said, trying to straighten herself up, pulling back her shoulders, forcing her expression into neutral lines. "Quite well, thank you," she said. "I am only…" she searched for a viable medieval excuse, "…tired."

"Aye, she has had quite a day," John confirmed. "How did Gisborne manage to nab you, Marion?" he asked her.

Raven shook her head. "I can't recall."

"Her speech is altered, still," John said to Robin. "Do you note it?"

Robin nodded, the worried look still on his face. "You have no memory of your abduction?"

She shook her head. "No, er…nay," she corrected herself. She wasn't lying. She didn't remember her abduction because she wasn't in this body when it was abducted, but she wouldn't tell him that.

Robin held out one of the rough wooden benches for her and she sat, while he paced. "If we do not know why he took you, or how, it cannot be safe for you to return to your home," he determined, stopping to look at her.

John was nodding, hand on his chin as he thought, everything in his expression and mannerisms reminding Raven so much of Cyborg that she felt a sudden pang of homesickness, and the emotion surprised her with its newness. "You may have a traitor among your servants –"

"The bastard could have pulled you from your bed," Robin said with unexpected vehemence.

"You wish me to stay here?" Raven asked.

"Sure 'tis not what you are accustomed to," John started.

"No, it's not that," Raven assured him. She glanced at Robin, who was looking at her in that considering way he had. She thought about her next words very carefully. "Will my servants not be worried?"

"Until we know why Gisborne dared abduct you, it is the only way we can be certain of your safety," Robin said.

And he suddenly looked very much like the Robin she knew and she couldn't think of a reason to deny him. Not to mention, she wasn't sure what the flow of this time or place was supposed to be, and she couldn't in good conscious, alter that blindly. Best she go with the flow, she decided. At least, until she could figure out where she was exactly, and why she was there.

So, with no small amount of wariness, she nodded. "I will remain," she announced.

She did not miss the look Cyborg (John) and Robin shared, but she pretended to be too involved in her surroundings to notice.

"We shall leave you to your rest then, Marion."

Raven looked up at him and nodded. "Yes, that's a good..." she trailed off as she tried to form a more medieval-friendly sentiment. "It is a sound notion," she determined.

"The others will be anxious to see you, Marion," Cyborg look alike said with a kind smile on his face. "Will you join us for to sup after you've rested?"

The others? She didn't think she could take the others, whoever they were, but she had a feeling Marion would never say no, so she nodded.

"Thank you," she said. "I will."

She watched them go and thought that the last thing she wanted to do was 'rest'. She had to find out what she was doing there, how she got there, and what exactly she had to do to get back. It occurred to her as she faced Robin Hood's concern that if she had just disappeared from the museum as she suspected she had, Robin -- all of her friends -- would be very worried. Could she get word to them somehow, she wondered.

She looked around the hut, mentally cataloging the items present therein, wondering what she could do with the things inside, only half listening to the sounds of life outside until the sound of children's laughter very near to the entrance caught her attention. She walked to the door and stood at the entrance, staring in amazement at the bustling forest village existing just outside her hut.

The encampment (she couldn't think of a better word) was a seemingly complex network of tree-suspended huts that - for all intents and purposes - were nearly identical, though she made sure to note that each had something that set it apart. The nearest hut to her own had a bright red cloth strewn across the door-flap, the next had a dabs of blue paint slathered intermittently among the thatch. And though she was no where near as accurate as Robin could be, she counted over 30 such huts within the network, though she was almost certain there were others more deeply hidden within the shadows of tree boughs and branches.

The huts were interconnected by a strange sort of rope ladder webbing, and it was obvious that these were expendable in the event of a necessary evacuation. Interspersed within the central _courtyard?_ - it was a clearing certainly but there were saplings among the space - were three large fires, safely ringed by several large stones. Atop one was a spit with a very large animal - a goat maybe? - prepared and being rotated by two boys who had turned the job into a singing game.

The sound of it, their tone and laughter, reminded her suddenly of Starfire.

The fires brought a smokey sort of softness to what Raven perceived to be a bleak scene. Though there were people here, bustling about with work and purpose, it was also obvious these people had seen hardship and were poor. The bulk of them wore clothing that seemed ragged and dull compared to her rich gown, and their faces were invariably dirty and raw-boned.

She was following the sound of the boy's singing and trying to navigate her way to one of those hazardous looking rope ladders earthy, when she was stopped by a short, plump woman with a basket lumped with an assortment of clothes. Raven inexplicably found herself smiling.

"Lady Marion?" the woman asked, and Raven thought she must have called to her at least once already.

"Yes?" Raven tried.

"Robin said you were feeling unwell," she said, sympathy on her features. "And that you were resting."

Raven thought of her words before speaking them, something she hadn't had to do since the first few months she arrived on Earth what seemed like an age ago. "I could not," she answered. "I did not feel a bit tired."

It must've been the right thing to say, because the woman laughed. "I am glad to hear it!" she announced. "For Lady Marion to retire so early is a sign she is feeling ill indeed."

Raven's smile widened, because she thought it was what the situation required.

"Were you looking for Robin, then?" the woman asked, shifting her loaded basket.

"No," Raven said, perhaps too quickly. "I was searching for a place to refresh myself," she said and hoped it sounded right. "And for a cool drink."

The woman frowned, "Men," she said, half under her breath. "Leave it to the rogue to offer the bread but not the brew!" she grumbled. "Come," she turned the way she had been walking. "I'll lead you to the stream," she said. "You can have a bath and your fill of cool water there."

Raven smiled, sincerely this time, and nodded. "I would be very grateful."

The woman laughed. "No need to stand on such ceremony here, m'lady!" she said, walking confidently down a slope.

Raven moved to follow the woman, intending to offer to carry the basket, but as she began down the slope as well - carefully, and holding her skirts as far aloft as she could without drawing suspicion - her words died in her throat when she caught hints of the setting sun between the trees.

Nightfall.

Her first night in a strange world, not her time.

_'What if this isn't a dream?'_ she wondered. What did she know about getting in or out of fairytales? What did she know of fairytales, period? Her reading, extensive though it might be, had usually strayed away from the childish stories. Her steps halted suddenly, her hands dropping her skirts to steady herself with a hand against the nearest hut.

'_Nothing,'_ she admitted. She knew nothing.

Something cold and heavy settled in her chest at the realization. She was tempted to call it 'fear'.

_To Be Continued . . . _

**Author's Notes: **Raven's identification of certain fabrics is flawed here due to drawing on her experience. She's not TOO far off, however. Other than that, there isn't anything of real historical significance in this chapter so there's really no notes accept to say Emania kicks ass at right Robin's flirty-ness ^_~

The set up of Robin Hood's camp is kind of a mesh of all the movie versions I've seen. It's not terribly realistic but we'll get into more detail about the inner workings later.

The next chapter is MINE primarily - and to give you an idea of the FUN involved, it is tentatively titled, "Minstrel, Silence Thy Mouth With a Kiss." And never fear! Jump City's Robin will be making an appearance VERY soon ^_~


End file.
